


Suffer For Those Sins

by Solrika



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Minor Violence, Pre-Recall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 05:59:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8192923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solrika/pseuds/Solrika
Summary: Blackwatch stages a smash-and-grab mission in the Shimada complex while Hanzo and Genji fight. Hanzo deals with the aftermath.





	

  * This is what Hanzo returns to: Rooms trashed, their guards dead or incapacitated, the council of elders clamoring for his attention.

The dragons are tense, prickly coils under his skin, making him snap and snarl whenever anyone gets too close. There is family, though, and duty–-so he marshals himself. Draws himself up tall the way he remembers his mother doing two years ago. “We meet in the council room,” he grinds out, and sends servants scurrying ahead of the procession to set the room to rights.

There are work groups to arrange–-some to clean, some to see what has been taken, some to count the bodies. Hanzo stays upright for that, despite the elders tugging on his sleeve to sit. When it’s over, food is brought and he’s finally coerced to join them on the bamboo mats. 

He is still sticky with blood, his clothes a windswept mess. 

They sit and deliberate on the state of affairs for hours. They need to find more guards, need to re-establish a hold on their international territory, beat back that infuriating American gang. This morning has cemented his position as clan leader. He must be here for this.

Hanzo finds his calm and grabs onto it with both hands. He still shatters a teacup when a dragon bursts from his fingers, but-–it is a small thing. His mother used to say she did the same, when she was a young clan leader. He reminds the elders of this while a servant mops up the mess, and forces his mouth into a smile. “Hopefully, this is a sign I shall follow her illustrious footsteps.” 

It makes the elders chuckle. 

The saving grace to a meeting filled with old people is that they always end by late afternoon. Hanzo has time to clean his blade, shower, and change clothes before dusk settles over the compound. 

He will be moved into his mothers’ old rooms by the end of the week. He has a vague thought to visit them, one last time–-see them before they change. They have laid quiet too long. He should–-pay respects. Remember. 

It is quiet.

He stops before the door to Genji’s room–  _“How come he gets to be closer?” “He’s the youngest, little wolf. He's between us so you can help us protect him.”_ –and is surprised to find it hanging off its hinges. Most of the personal rooms were trashed, so it shouldn’t be something that startles him, but–

–the bed is overturned, posters ripped off the wall–

–he steps over the threshold, picking his way across the room. All the drawers are pulled out of the closet, clothes strewn everywhere. He spots one of Genji’s favorite sweatshirts in a corner. The little bonsai is gone. There’s a tea cup and plate in pieces on the floor. 

“Eating in your room _still_?” Hanzo mutters. His voice sounds too loud, suddenly, and he swallows. Genji will not keep eating in his room now. There won’t be crumbs on the sheets that threaten to bring in ants. 

Hanzo tries to tut at himself, tries to busy himself picking up the pieces of teacup. His foot knocks against a picture frame–-empty, glass shattered. The dragons shiver under his skin. One snaps its teeth, anxious, a pinprick of pain across his shoulder. 

The room feels wrong, suddenly–-its familiarity shredded in the span of one day. Hanzo can find touchstones in it (here, a rock that Genji picked up on a visit to the ocean, there a little paper fan that Hanzo had brought him on a whim for the sparrows painted across its side, the plain white teacups that Genji would steal from the servants’ kitchens, bottles of hair dye split open and leaking) but the destruction makes the space… 

He slices his fingers on the porcelain, swallows a curse. “Such a pest you are,” he snaps to the empty room. “Causing me trouble even in death.” 

Only silence answers him. 

Genji would be rolling his eyes, Hanzo thinks. Rolling his eyes and fetching a bandage the next moment. 

He tries to find the fury from the morning, the way the dragons had roiled and snarled and _roared_ , strong enough to make his bones feel like lightning. There is only a rising sense of despair. The dragons are still and silent. 

Genji won’t be there in the morning to join him at breakfast. Genji won’t be there with his ridiculous cameras, showing Hanzo pictures of girlfriends and boyfriends and parts of Hanamura that Hanzo didn’t even know existed. Genji won’t be standing at his side in council meetings, flicking his fingers in the way that means _can you believe this_ and _let’s get outta here, brother_. 

The pictures of their family are gone from the walls, and when Hanzo searches, vision starting to cloud in panic, he can’t find more than scrap caught in a floorboard. One camera is smashed, its old-fashioned film unspooling like innards. The other is missing. He finds Genji’s scarf in a corner, that ugly shade of orange that had clashed with his brother’s ridiculous green hair. There is a deep furrow in the wall beside it, as if an angry claw had rent through the plaster.

“Did you do this?” he asks the absent dragon, his own two writhing in distress. “Is this your revenge?” he demands, looking around as if to spot a spark of green. “I take your partner, you wreak destruction on the clan?”

Nothing answers, or appears, and his dragons keen silently when no one comes to their calls either. It’s just Hanzo and the ruined room. It’s just Hanzo and his guilt.

“I had to,” he tells Genji’s dragon–-the South wind, that playful warm spirit who liked to play tag with them both as boys. He sinks to his knees, knots the scarf in his fists. “I had to, don’t you see, I had to–-”

_protect him, my little wolf_

–-and Hanzo stifles a sob. It’s unbecoming of the Shimada clan leader to cry. It’s not right, it’s not right, but here he is with tears leaking out his eyes and Genji’s room in tatters around him, little sobs ripping their way out his throat. 

Genji was always the one who cried, before. Genji was always-–always–-

_I’m scared, Hanzo_

_it’s okay, it’s just a thunderstorm_

_it sounds like monsters!_

_come into my bed. I’ll keep you safe_

The scarf does little to muffle Hanzo’s howl of grief. 




**Author's Note:**

> I always liked the idea of Hanzo thinking Genji's dragon was responsible for destroying everything in its death throes, acting out the revenge its master couldn't.


End file.
